


An Agreement

by dorbee, Monocerotis



Series: The Blind Leading the Blind [2]
Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Amnesiac!Ford, M/M, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-20
Updated: 2021-01-20
Packaged: 2021-03-18 16:00:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28869684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dorbee/pseuds/dorbee, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Monocerotis/pseuds/Monocerotis
Summary: Fiddleford struggles to tend to Ford as the strain from Bill’s constant jeering mounts. At his limit, he seeks the only form of redress he’s able—negotiating with Cipher, on no uncertain terms.
Relationships: Bill Cipher & Fiddleford H. McGucket, Fiddleford H. McGucket/Ford Pines
Series: The Blind Leading the Blind [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2096208
Comments: 1
Kudos: 10





	An Agreement

Ford thinks he’s getting the hang of his nighttime routine. He wanders the cabin after dinner, skimming books and admiring the architecture until Fiddleford tells him to get ready for bed. That was something he could remember, washing his face and brushing his teeth. He had always been hygienic.

He’s exhausted and flops into bed, but there’s something uncomfortable beneath his leg. He looks down to find—oh. His pajamas. He was about to go to bed in his overcoat, wasn’t he?

The pajamas are quite dowdy, to be frank. Candy cane striped, red and white. He makes a face as he unfolds them and starts to undress. By the time Fiddleford ambles in, he’s got his pants on, and he’s buttoning up the top. “Have I always worn such silly nightclothes?”

Good humor is in short supply, these days—Fiddleford laughs for the first time since dawn. It feels foreign to him. He imagines Ford’s experiencing a similar sensation in his unfamiliar sleepwear. “I reckon I wouldn’ta said as much to your face, but you’ve been rockin’ these since college.” Ford struggles with the uppermost button, fastening it up to his chin like he always has. It eases Fiddleford to see some things aren’t wiped away so easily. “Here, let me help you.” Reaching over, he fastens the troublesome garment, fingertips brushing Ford’s chin.

Ford chuckles, turning from Fiddleford and blushing. Even small gestures are electrifying from someone he’s still getting to know. A frown emerges at that thought: no, he’s known Fiddleford for a very long time— _ loved him _ for a very long time. Of course, he received that information mere... days? weeks? hours? ago. He’s not sure, but it hasn’t been long. “Thank you, Fiddleford.” Sitting on the edge of the bed, he shifts as he becomes accustomed to his pajamas. His eyelids are drooping, but he’s nonetheless eager to squeeze in some quality time before bed. “How was your day? We’re together so often, but it feels so brief.” He wonders if that might be a side-effect, but the thought is gone a moment later.

_ HOW MUCH OF THE TRUTH ARE YOU GONNA TELL HIM THIS TIME? _

Hiding his grimace at Bill’s internal jeering, Fiddleford plops down next to Ford. “I got a project I been tinkerin’ with,” he replies, kicking his feet. “A surprise for you, when you get tired o’ readin’ everything else layin’ around here.”

_ “TINKERING” IS A FUN WAY TO DESCRIBE IRREVERSIBLY REDACTING HIS LIFE’S WORK. _

_ Contrary to what you might think, I’m smart enough to leave out all the gory details of your time together. _

“For me? That’s quite exciting.” So exciting, in fact, that Ford doesn’t realize he’s rocking until he bumps Fiddleford. He blushes. “Sorry.” There’s a pause before he clears his throat and continues. “You know, I’ll never quite get the hang of this place—it’s like the hallways change when I’m not looking. Even when I know where you are it takes ages to find you. I’d suspect an anomaly if I couldn’t attribute it to my faulty memory.”

Fiddleford drapes an arm around Ford’s shoulder. “You’re the one who designed it, so I’m sure it’ll come back to you.” He gives said shoulder a squeeze. “I could dig up the blueprints? Don’t know if it’d help, but it’s worth a try.”

“The blueprints may help. They could also uncover more strange secrets and confuse us further,” Ford says. “I vote we dig them up.”

_ WHAT’RE YOU GONNA DO WHEN IT’S ALL IN CODE? _

_ You can’t encode a drawing, Cipher. _

_ EAT YOUR WORDS, BASEMENT DWELLER! IN A FEW DECADES ENCRYPTED IMAGES ARE GONNA BE ALL THE RAGE! _

Preoccupied with the peanut gallery, Fiddleford stares into the middle distance. It’s a distressingly common occurrence. Ford gathers what’s going on. "Is it talking to you?" he asks, voice gentle as he rubs Fiddleford’s arm.

_ “IT?” YOU LET HIM CALL ME A FUCKING  _ **_“IT!?”_ **

_ Well, you’re acting like one! _

“Yes,” Fiddleford sighs, leaning into Ford. “He’s been quieter, but I’m never alone long.”

_ I DON’T HAVE ANYTHING ELSE TO DO! _

_ No need to remind me that I’m your only source of entertainment.  _

“I’m sorry I keep gettin’ distracted, it—he’s hard to ignore.”

Ford wraps Fiddleford in his arms, rocking their bodies back and forth. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he mutters, his tone more sing-song than apologetic. He repeats the words to inaudibility, letting his face rest on Fiddleford’s shoulder. “I wish there was a way I could fix this—to get rid of him without damaging your brain. But I’d never risk it. It’s hard with one feeble-minded member of this household, we wouldn’t both survive in this state.” The rocking pauses as an idle concern crosses his mind. “Have you been sleeping?”

That question pulls Fiddleford’s mouth into a horizontal line.

_ LOOKS LIKE HE FINALLY NOTICED THOSE BAGS UNDER YOUR EYES. YOU SHOULD INVEST IN SOME CONCEALER! _

“I, uh… I-I’ve been tryin’ to get some shut-eye when I can, but—” his free hand bunches up the covers with white knuckles. Visions of fire, brimstone, and  _ Bill _ stroll through like pink elephants on parade. “Most o’ the time I wake up sweatin’ minutes later.” Now it’s Fiddleford who buries his nose in Ford’s neck.

Ford’s face melts into sorrow as he runs his fingers through Fiddleford’s hair. “That’s terrible! You’re always making sure I sleep and eat and take care of myself, you deserve the same care.” His sad expression shifts to one of frustration. “Of course if my damnable brain weren’t  _ jello _ I could assist you, but—” he grimaces. The constant headache now only flares occasionally. “That cannot be. All I can do is comfort, and I pray that’s enough.”

“Oh, Fordsy, don’t go worryin’ about me.” Fiddleford can’t see Ford gritting his teeth, but he can practically hear it, and he nuzzles into his partner. “You’ll always be more than enough, I swear that’ll never change.”

_ BUT YOU WISH HE COULD HELP. _

_ Can you let me alone for even a minute? _

_ WHY ASK QUESTIONS YOU ALREADY KNOW THE ANSWERS TO? _

“Here, lemme tuck you in before we stay up any later.” It’s difficult to keep his exasperation from leaching into his tone.

Ford is hesitant, but after a few seconds of consideration, he smiles and nods. “Yes, I’m quite tired,” he yawns, stretching. He moves to lay down, but hesitates, giving Fiddleford a serious look. “You’ll go to bed as well?”

Creaking back to his feet, Fiddleford plasters a bittersweet smile on his face. “‘Course I will, darlin’.”

_ LIAR, LIAR, BRAIN ON FIRE! _

_ You’re a child. _

_ WHAT WOULD YOU KNOW ABOUT CHILDREN, HUH? WHEN’S THE LAST TIME YOU— _

_ For Christ’s sake, must you go there? _

Rubbing his eyes too vigorously to pass off as mere tiredness, he refocuses on Stanford. “Goodnight.”

Ford’s own eyes narrow at Fiddleford, suspicious—until he’s hit by another yawn. He rests his head on the pillow. What would Fiddleford gain from lying to him? It was silly to worry. “Goodnight, my dear friend. Thank you for everything.” He’s already drifting off.

“Dear friend”. The words echo in Fiddleford’s mind as he turns and exits the room, passing his door in the hallway. Bill takes up the refrain where his thoughts leave off.

_ WHY KEEP UP THIS RELATIONSHIP AT ALL WHEN HE ALWAYS SNAPS RIGHT BACK TO “JUST PALS?” _

Fiddleford says nothing, heading for the main room.

_ THE SILENT TREATMENT? NOW WHO’S IMMATURE! _

Fiddleford says nothing, shuffling to the trapdoor.

_ OH, GETTING SOME FRESH AIR TO CLEAR YOUR HEAD? GREAT IDEA! HAVE FUN FREEZING TO DEATH! _

Fiddleford says nothing, pulling down the ladder and climbing onto the roof.

_ …WHAT’RE YOU DOING? _

Fiddleford makes his way to a flat overhang and sits down. “Why don’t you tell me what I’m doing, Cipher?” He stares at his hands, covered in ink and papercuts. “Why don’t you tell me _ how you expect me to go on like this? _ ”

In an instant, the world goes black and white. Bill Cipher screams up from a distance, stopping three feet from Fiddleford’s face. “WHOA WHOA WHOA, SLOW YOUR ROLL! NO NEED TO GET ALL DOOM AND GLOOM! YOU GOT PLENTY TO LIVE FOR, LIKE—” a few images flash across Bill’s eye. Fiddleford helping Ford put on his shoes. Fiddleford falling asleep with his face in Journal 3. Ford awakening from yet another catapult nightmare he can’t recall. Bill blinks before tipping back his hat.

“HM, YOUR LIFE SUCKS! EVER THINK ABOUT HOW MUCH BETTER IT’D BE IF YOU NEVER PULLED THE TRIGGER? FORD IN HIS RIGHT MIND, YOU A SUCCESS AT HIS SIDE, ME WITH MY PORTAL? BUT NOBODY CAN CHANGE THE PAST, NOT EVEN ME! WE LIVE WITH THE PRESENT. MY PRESENT IS,” his eye flashes red, “ **BOUNCING AROUND YOUR SKULL LIKE AN ANGRY PING-PONG BALL.** ” Bill laughs, and the red fades as his fury simmers down. “I DON’T LIKE THIS ANY MORE THAN YOU, FIDDLESTICKS! PERHAPS EVEN LESS THAN YOU! BUT I COPE WITH CUTTING JAPES, NOT CUTTING MYSELF. I RECOMMEND YOU DO THE SAME!”

Jaw clenched, Fiddleford balls his mutilated hands into fists. “This ain’t funny, you twisted piece o’ shit,” he seethes, staring down his tormentor with rage and anguish, but not fear. “If you hate it so much, quit makin’ it worse for me! For both of us! Can’t you find some way to entertain yourself that don’t drive me to suicide?” He jabs his index finger inches from the surface of Bill’s eye. “You see plenty o’ things with that pan-dimensional peeper. There any universe where I  _ don’t _ throw myself offa here the minute we’re done speakin’?”

Once again, there’s a slideshow in place of Bill’s pupil. His concern grows as the jump appears several times over. Nervously, he laughs. “HUH, YOU WEREN’T JOKING!” If he had a collar, he’d be tugging on it. “I DON’T WANT  _ THIS _ TO HAPPEN! AM I CRAZY? YES. EVIL? DEFINITELY. BUT I DON’T DESERVE TO BE HOMELESS! YOU’RE THE ONLY HUMAN SKULL I CAN CRASH IN!” Clearing his throat, or whatever a being like him might have in place of it, he takes a seat on the edge of the roof. “SO, YOU’RE STRUGGLING. TALK TO ME. I HAVE EONS OF KNOWLEDGE UNDER MY BELT. CONSIDER YOURSELF LUCKY TO BE ON THE RECEIVING END OF IT!”

Bill’s turned on a dime so fast, Fiddleford swears his hat’s spinning. It’d be hilarious if it wasn’t so, “Pathetic.” Though it’s muttered, he knows Bill’s heard him when his stupid eye flashes red again. “All you worry about is your own eviction. I thought you hated seein’ Stanford like this! Don’t you want him gettin’ back to his old self? I do! You wanna make yourself useful? Well, y’know him better than me, gimme pointers on how to help.”

Bill rubs his hands together. “THAT’S QUITE THE CONUNDRUM. LET’S TALK THE NATURE OF YOUR INVENTION.” He snaps his fingers to manifest a whiteboard, and a floating marker draws a diagram of Fiddleford’s head. “THE MEMORY GUN IS LESS LIKE A PENCIL’S ERASER AND MORE LIKE A PENCIL’S ERASER BEING FIRED FROM A BAZOOKA! THE BEAM ENTERS YOUR BRAIN, ERASES THE RELEVANT MEMORY, AND LEAVES—BUT IT TAKES EVERYTHING IT RAN INTO ON THE WAY! THAT’S WHY YOU’VE GOT A HEALTHY SERVING OF LONG-TERM MEMORY SAUCE.” A flip of the whiteboard reveals the outline of Stanford’s head on the opposite side. “ONE BLAST FROM THE MEMORY GUN SHOULDN’T HAVE CAUSED OUR CURRENT PREDICAMENT. THE PROBLEM IS YOU ERASED  _ ME! _ ” With a spin, he chuckles. “WHEN I ENTER SOMEONE’S MIND, I’M LIKE ONE OF YOUR COMPUTER VIRUSES. I GET  **EVERYWHERE.** THE BEAM RICOCHETED AROUND STANFORD’S BRAIN UNTIL IT WAS NOTHING BUT,” he scribbles over the drawing. “MUSH!”

Another snap of his fingers, and the whiteboard disappears. “IF ONLY SUCH A CATASTROPHE COULD BE FIXED BY HOPE AND CARE ALONE. YOU CAN UNDO SOME DAMAGE BY REINTRODUCING THE DESTROYED MEMORIES THROUGH THE SENSES! PICTURES, FOOD, MUSIC, OTHER DISGUSTING HUMAN SENTIMENTALITIES. YOU’RE ALREADY DOING A BANG-UP JOB, BUT FARMBOY, IT TAKES TIME! LOTS OF BLOOD, SWEAT, TEARS, MEMORY TRIGGERS, AND SETBACKS TO RETURN TO EVEN A FAULTY FACSIMILE OF THE PAST!”

For a moment, he’s sympathetic to Fiddleford's plight.

“I’LL HELP YA, BUT I CAN’T BRING HIM BACK OVERNIGHT. IN FACT, MOST THINGS I  _ CAN _ DO ARE DIRECTLY HARMFUL!”

Bleak as the prognosis may be, Bill’s making a genuine effort to educate Fiddleford. It’s almost impossible to believe, given the little devil’s been nothing but a thorn in his side for the past few days. In the face of such a thorough explanation, he has no choice but to give Bill the benefit of the doubt—something he thought he’d never do.

“I know you’re limited in offerin’ help with this, even if you wanted to, and I’m happy to hear I’m on the right track, more or less.” He falls back, staring up at the monochrome stars, frozen mid-twinkle. “But if this is gonna take the rest of my life, as I reckon it will, I—I can’t handle you torturin’ me day an’ night, I can’t.”

Bill hangs there for a second.

“YOU’RE NOT LEAVING?” One more time, he snaps, recreating the scribbled-over whiteboard. “I SHOWED YOU THIS RIGHT? MADE IT PAINFULLY CLEAR THERE’S LITTLE HOPE FOR THE POOR SAP?”

Fiddleford stares him down.

Bill wolf-whistles and spins his hat around. “SO I DID MISJUDGE! I WAS SURE YOU’D SEND POOR FORDSY UP TO SALEM! Y’KNOW, THEY CALL IT AN INSTITUTION, BUT IT’S MORE LIKE THE HOG FARM BACK HOME! LOTS OF DIRT AND SCREAMING, GREAT TIMES.” He moves to block Fiddleford’s view of the stars. “BY THE BY, HAYSEED, I GET WHERE YOU’RE COMING FROM. YOU CAN’T LIVE WITH MY CONSTANT POKING FUN, I CAN’T LIVE TRAPPED WITHOUT A BODY FOR THE NEXT SIX OR SIX THOUSAND YEARS. I’M WELL-VERSED IN THE ART OF THE DEAL, SURELY WE CAN COME TO SOME KIND OF GENTLEMEN’S AGREEMENT?” He disappears and reappears beside Fiddleford, examining the manicure he doesn't have. “LET’S TALK. SEE HOW I CAN HELP YOU HELP ME... AND, SIXER, I GUESS.”

With great resignation, Fiddleford rolls over to face the demon lounging next to him. They look like girls gossiping at a sleepover, especially when he rolls his eyes. “I don’t know why I’m shocked you don’t care about restoring your ‘acolyte’ to his former glory, but I digress.” Tilting his head, he narrows his eyes with curiosity. “You said you were ‘trapped without a body?’ You feel… limited, by communicatin’ only through the mind?” Now he inspects his nails, stained and cracked from overwork. “If it comes down to you messin’ with me physically or emotionally, I’ll take a beatin’ over a tongue-lashin’ any day.”

Bill raises his eyebrow, incredulous. “YOU’VE TAKEN A SUDDEN SHIFT ON THE MORALITY OF POSSESSING A HUMAN BEING. BLEW FORDSY’S BRAIN TO BITS OVER IT, BUT ONCE IT’S YOUR RIDE GETTING HIJACKED, YOU’RE INDIFFERENT! I’M NO PSYCHOLOGIST, BUT YOUR BRAIN SURE THINKS WEIRD!” He cackles for a few seconds, then sighs and wipes a tear from his eye. “THE OFFER’S SWEET, BUT I KNOW YOU’D RENEG THE MINUTE I HAD ANY FUN. DEAREST STANFORD WAS A GRACIOUS HOST. NO SHADE SISTER, YOU’RE FAR FROM IT!” He rises off the roof, facing the stars with his arms crossed behind him. “ALL I ASK FROM YOU IS THE VICARIOUS LIFE. GO ABOUT YOUR DAYS WITH STANFORD AND WHATEVER FAMILY YOU’D CALL YOUR OWN. LIVE AS YOU ALWAYS HAVE. AND GIVE ME A VIEW.”

Fiddleford can’t help but be empathetic, and he wants to slap himself for it. Before he can get too sentimental, though, his meager sense of dignity compels him to explain. “I don’t think it’s any less horrible for you to inhabit my body as opposed to Stanford’s. The way I see it, I picked up a pitchfork the minute I could stand, and if I hadn’t gotten outta dodge, I woulda lived and died carin’ for swine. Fordsy’s worth more to me than all the pigs in the world, ‘n’ so long as I wasn’t irreversibly wounded, I’d let you have at me ‘til you got sick of it.” He stands and approaches Bill. “But if all you want is to share in my happiness—to experience the sights and sounds o’ the world through my eyes and ears?” Shaking his head, he shoves his hands in his pockets. “Hate you I may, I got no reason to begrudge you that.”

Bill doesn’t respond for a long time. He squints, confused.

“ARE YOU KIDDING? NO DISBELIEVING RANT ABOUT MY DEMONIC AND DECEIVING NATURE? NO HAGGLING, NO BARGAINS? YOU’RE NOT PUTTING UP A  _ FIGHT? _ I MEAN, TO BE CLEAR, I WON’T SHUT UP. I’LL STOP CRITICIZING YOUR TERRIBLE CHOICES, I’LL EASE UP ON THE COLOR COMMENTARY, BUT WHEN I GET BORED, I TALK. I NEVER DO MY DISHES AND I CLOG THE TOILET, I'M A BAD ROOMMATE!”

A long pause.

“BUT IF YOU’RE NOT PLANNING ON TURNING ME DOWN AFTER ALL THAT… THANK YOU?” The phrase causes Bill pain.

Fiddleford busts into a full-blown hillbilly guffaw, slapping his knee before regaining composure. “Bill Cipher showin’ politeness to  _ me! _ I never thought I’d see the day.” Placing his hands on his hips, he gives Bill the hint of a smile. “You ain’t askin’ for much. I never expected you to quit yappin’ completely.” Despite himself, he pats the weird little gremlin on the back. “You’re welcome.”

With each back pat, Bill’s pupil briefly turns to pinpoint. He clears his non-throat for the second time.

“THIS DEAL ALSO INVOLVES YOU FINALLY SLEEPING. AFTER ALL,” his eye plays footage from inside: Ford finding Fiddleford’s room empty. “SOMEBODY’S A-LOOKIN’ FOR YA!” He dissipates in an instant as the night sky regains its color, the stars twinkling once more.

The first thing Fiddleford notices is that he’s freezing. Second, he notices he’s sitting on the edge of the roof. Third, he notices his heart is beating out of his chest. Scurrying back to the hatch leading inside, he throws it open so hard it nearly flies off its hinges. He barely remembers to close it behind him as he launches himself off the ladder, down the hall toward his room.

“Stanford?”

“F-Fiddleford?”

“Stanford, I’m coming, I—”

He barrels into his boyfriend, grabs him tight, and doesn’t let go.

“I’m here.”

Ford can’t reply, but the tension in his back disappears. For Fiddleford, that’s enough.

“I always will be.”

**Author's Note:**

> WKH WHUPV DUH VHW, WKH WDVN LV QLJK  
> DV QLJKWV RI GUHDPOHVV VOHHS JR EB  
> D GRUPDQW VHHG ZDNHV XS, WDNHV URRW  
> DQG VSURXWV DQG BHDUQV WR JURZ IUHVK IUXLW


End file.
